meet me in room 615 tomorrow night
by worshippingbones
Summary: Liz and Tristan consider a future together. Rethinking the pivotal confrontation between three lovers and imagining a happier ending.
1. Chapter 1

The hotel had very few blessings, but its discretion was one of them, Liz thought as she breezed out of the elevator and onto the sixth floor. She held the key to her destination tight; a talisman for her passing unharmed but also a privilege. Not everyone got to move so freely throughout the Cortez. The passion of her grip belied her fear, as if the walls would watching and would whisper to their keeper what she was doing. She approached the door, took a glance up and down the hall, and knocked. Silence. She put an ear to the door and then swung that key loose from her fist, and breathed a sigh of relief as the lock cleaved to its form. Everything was making her nervous. Maybe he hadn't answered because he wasn't here and had changed his mind. +

But as she readied herself and her heart began to sink, his chime-voice rang out: "I'm in here. Come into the bathroom."

She immediately closed and locked the door behind her and swept into the bathroom. Of course he had chosen this room, for this purpose: there was a grandiose bath in the corner, built in handsomely against the tiled wall. He had it filled, steaming. As she approached, he stepped out of it, a towel slung around his hips, held with one careless hand, loosely curled enough to give way at any second. "Don't wait. Get in with me."

 _Many women have impeccable standards. Women wait their whole lives to claw out a form of a man with a strong education and six figures under his belt, but…_ She looked at the man with such silken skin, with that teasing hand holding the towel, reaching out his other hands to take hers and she watched his soft lips as he said: "Don't let it get cold. I've missed you. Get in with me." _This is heaven for me._

…

He had folded her clothes as she took them off, all the way down to her stockings, and had put them on the bath-stool next to the tub. They stayed in the warm bath for nearly an hour, lost in conversation, sometimes perfectly silent, Tristan with his eyes closed and his head back, Liz with her head on his chest.

Halfway through, Liz got out to get them some drinks. While she was arranging them, he got out as well, and she heard the tub draining as she stepped out of the bathroom.

"I thought we weren't done?"

"Too pruney. It was making me sleepy."

"Then this won't help much." Liz said, holding his cocktail out to him. "A fierce Old Fashioned. Wake you up or knock you straight out."

"Oooh." Tristan took it and removed the double straws, dropping them straight in the trash and putting his lips right to the glass to take a swig instead. Atrocious. "What are you having?"

"I'm doing a mint mojito. With a sparkling twist." She raised her own glass and sipped as he sat down on the bed, stark naked, halfway done with his drink a minute after she had handed it over.

"It's such a pleasure to watch you do anything," he mumbled after a moment, and laid back, his drink slack in his hand. Liz adjusted her towel and gently pulled it from his grip to set it on their nightstand. She felt the same about him, but kept quiet. She only felt comfortable saying her feelings when she knew his. In the silence, he took initiative again, and rolled on his side to look up at her. She laid down to match him. "You move with… grace. You make me feel like I'm this big dumb animal barging around." He lowered his eyes and took her hand, ran his rough fingers over hers, looked at her teal manicure. "I guess the intelligence thing bothers me a lot more than I'd usually admit, but you're so open."

Liz sighed and stroked his hand. "I think the problem with a lot of people- and it might be your case, is that a lot of people pose the question, 'is he smart?' but nobody asks, 'Are we smart? Do we grant him intelligence? Do we lead by example?'" Tristan began to smile, and Liz could see him puzzling through the concept. She continued: "There isn't a lot of room in the world for people who throw school away, and that's a terrible way to misjudge a brain. Books smarts just aren't everything—" she held up a finger- "but there's no reason NOT to catch up on reading."

His grin flourished. "I know, I know, I'll get on it. I wish I had a reading guide for it."

"No Sparknotes. No cheating."

"No cheating," he agreed, and then softer, as he stroked her hand: "I'll just take my time."

They exchanged a long kiss before Liz pulled back. "Speaking of, how much—"

"She won't be back until tomorrow. She's on a business trip."

"Ah." Liz reached for her cocktail, sparking Tristan to remember his and grab it off the nightstand. She sighed. "I know it hangs over our heads when we're together. I'm nervous, too. But love is never wrong and she knows that." Tristan nodded, but let the words hang before saying what she was thinking: "It feels like a... betrayal. Like I'm cheating on her even though we're not dating." He took a drink. "I feel guilty and it feels stupid."

"You think I don't feel the same way?" Liz raised a dubious eyebrow and swung herself off the bed to fetch her clothes from the bathroom, and spoke as she dressed. ""Honestly, she revolutionized the way I thought about myself. That isn't to say that she made me. Or you. Never think of it that way: remember, you have to have a strong establishment of self in order to reap the benefits from somebody else. Everybody is a self, but…" she noted the glow of understanding in Tristan's eyes and continued, arranging her shawl, returning slowly to slide onto the bed next to his naked form. "We have all these barriers that we think are so immobile and impassable, and once we find ourselves past them, it's hard to imagine... I remember thinking to myself once I was putting these dresses on in the morning, 'Why was this so hard? What took me so long?'

Liz cradled his face in her palm and watched as he closed his eyes; kissed with great care her slim fingers.

She whispered, forehead against his: "She is just another one of those barriers. Pass her and we have the world."


	2. Chapter 2

In the private of their room they drew the shades back to watch Los Angeles twinkle and sigh in the dark outside. Liz had specifically chosen a room with a mild history so that they could sleep undisturbed. Years of bloodshed had acclimated her to the hotel's generalized horrors but when she got the chance to spend time with Tristan, she wanted it to be perfect. She watched him, wrapped in his fluffy guest robe and sitting in the armchair next to the bed, working through a book. He shouldn't have any worries. It was a stifling need to pamper him. She kept quiet about it, not wanting to restrain him or seem needy after two hookups, but it was getting to the point where she'd be happy to run errands for him. She'd run errands for no one. She half watched the city and half watched him, the rhythm of his breathing and the flickers of recognition and interest on his face as he turned page after page, his big hand softly cradling the spine.

She finally drew herself away from the window and went into the bathroom to take her makeup off. The plan was to sleep half the night there before leaving; pulling her body away from his and separating with a kiss, leaving the room to sleep in her own bed, looking alone and blameless under the Cortez's yellow light. What counted were the next few hours in which she would lay next to him. The first time they hooked up (what a terrible word for their brand of passion, Liz thought, removing her earrings), she had snuggled up next to him later that night and asked if he was a cuddler or if he liked to sleep alone. He had just smiled and pulled her waist against the warmth of him, and held her that way all night.

…

Now, she slipped into the king-size hotel bed and rested on one side, smoothing the covers out for him. Tristan took the cue and folded a page in the book to mark it, putting it aside. He crawled in and she fixed the covers around him.

"Did you set the alarm?"

"Yep." Liz held her phone up. "I'll be nothing but a dream by 4:15."

"Her plane lands at 8. Are you sure you want to leave so early?"

A long moment then; time held between them as they locked eyes. The only measure of space was Tristan's cold jaw, which Liz stroked with a finger, and his hand holding hers, that plea without words, and then the even more slight question of him moving an inch closer in bed – please? Please? Stay?

"Oh…" she started, and lowered her eyes, withdrawing her hand. She felt the weight of the world in the "no" she had to say, and shook her head. "You know I can't risk it. I need to set the stage, make it look like I was at home all night." He lowered his eyes too, following her hand with his, trying to make it his again; warm his dead flesh with her fingers and she continued. "You know how good her nose is; there can't be any evidence."

"Just an hour…" the words were mere ghosts; a plea from a man who found it hurtful to ask. "Just an hour alone. Come on. You can even wake me up at 4 and I'll wake up too and we can spend it together instead of sleeping."

A smile crept up on her and she tried to hide it. Turning away from this now was like skinning herself; she held the knife, but it was nearly impossible to put it to the task. "You are SO hard to say no to."

"Thank god I am." whispered Tristan. "You're the best thing my charm has ever won me."

…

That quiet alarm went off on the bedside table of room 615 at 4 AM and both figures rose; one silenced it and the other wrapped his arms around her, and the two held each other carefully as the sun was having thoughts about appearing. By the time they separated and dressed, it was a crack in the sky, bleeding through in watercolor red against their curtains when the door closed on the room and the two bodies parted in the hall, one walking quicker than the other; both with their heads lowered, both touched by private, grief.


	3. Chapter 3

She swept into town later that day, when Liz was keeping her head down at the front desk. She was wrapped-embalmed, she almost thought- in the tightest, richest blue dress, which demanded space from the people crowding the door as she came in. Liz looked up, caught her eye, and a hand immediately went to play with the baubles at her ears; a nervous habit of the flesh. She flexed her hand and returned it flat to the desk.

"Countess," she said mildly, and then returned her eyes to her work.

"Hello, dove," murmured her employer, sweeping past the desk and tapping her long nails on Liz's page for a moment. In the few seconds she had to hold her breath, Liz almost thought she knew by some prenatural guess, or maybe scent, or perhaps a monster's intuition. But the moment past and she kept moving towards the elevators, suitcase rolling beside her.

It wasn't until the gilded doors closed that Liz allowed herself a covered sigh of relief, muffled by her palm. She was momentarily seized by irritation. Why should feel so betrayed? The Countess certainly wasn't dating him; there was no theft of property involved. And besides, why would she ever oppose a revolutionary love?

There were jealousy there, broiling under all these feelings, that she couldn't ignore. She couldn't ignore the fact that Tristan was only here and had only stayed because of his attraction to Elizabeth. He knew all about their electric first days, before Tristan had gotten a glimpse of her. She had hidden herself away at the fashion show, knowing that there was no chance of a connection between her and the aggressive, arresting model. And mere days after, a connection had been made.

But this was all fool's talk. The adolescent ramblings of a girl who barely knows what to do with her feelings, so she doodles her love's name on her tests. If she didn't stop and get a grip on herself, it would be obvious. And at the heart of it all, potentially deadly. Elizabeth was a creature of a lot of things, but being on the mindless brink of timelessness had numbed her to patterns. It wasn't untoward for her to strike out and do something rash. Because she was blameless. Liz put her pen down and ran a hand over her face. They had to secure their relationship or she was sure she'd have to start taking sleep aids just to get some rest. His face was every second thought. The elevator dinged again and she flinched only to be greeted by the face of a guest. Get your head in order, she told herself. Get it together.

Two days later, she was closing up her shift at the front desk, getting ready to change into her nightwear and head to the bar for another three hours' work when she heard panting and footsteps from the landing above. She glanced up and snapped her book of records shut, adjusting the low-laying glasses on the bridge of her nose.

"Liz," panted a familiar voice. "Liz, quick. Come here."

"What now?" hissed Liz, as Iris approached, hobbling as quickly as she could, trying to stay detatched with cold terror like a fist in her stomach. There were multiple things at stake here. "What is it?"

"Liz, the coffins." She doubled over and swept her hair back from her eyes. "I'm sorry. I ran here and it's my damn bad leg. Ramona just told me—" Iris glanced behind her—"The coffins are gone, totally gone. The hell did you do?"

"Nothing," stated Liz, keeping her eyes trained on the landing and the elevator. That meant Elizabeth almost certainly already knew, or was about to find out. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, god damn it," agonized Iris. "But something's gonna go down tonight. We need to figure this shit out. She's gone right now, but there's no guarantee when she'll come back."

"Alright," said Liz, stepping out from around the front desk. "You take over. Where's that god damn baby?"

…

Two floors up, Ramona was on the floor, clutching an open wound, fingers trembling when she tried to touch it. "Son of a bitch." She had tracked the merest bit of blood on the nursery carpet, which might be missed by the human eye, but it was more than enough to smell. She got to her feet and shook it off, stepping into the dimness of the hallway, only to step immediately back from a figure pressing down the hall towards her.

"Trouble with the children?" chimed a voice. "I hear Bartholomew's in his terrible twos."

"I tried to do it," Ramona spat. "Her boy wimped out and ran upstairs so I went at it myself. It's fast. It's fast as hell, and don't know where it is." She held her bloodied arm against her, exposing the wound to the light. "And it bit me."

"Disgusting," Liz simpered, a hand on her hip, only momentarily concerned about the gash. "We need to find that thing immediately. She's still out. I think I know who we can enlist. Come with me."


	4. Chapter 4

Two floors up, Ramona was on the floor, clutching an open wound, fingers trembling when she tried to touch it. "Son of a bitch." She had tracked the merest bit of blood on the nursery carpet, which might be missed by the human eye, but it was more than enough to smell. She got to her feet and shook it off, stepping into the dimness of the hallway, only to step immediately back from a figure pressing down the hall towards her.

"Trouble with the children?" chimed a voice. "I hear Bartholomew's in his terrible twos."

"I tried to do it," Ramona spat. "Her boy wimped out and ran upstairs so I went at it myself. It's fast. It's fast as hell, and don't know where it is." She held her bloodied arm against her, exposing the wound to the light. "And it bit me."

"Disgusting," Liz simpered, a hand on her hip, only momentarily concerned about the gash. "We need to find that thing immediately. She's still out. I think I know who we can enlist. Come with me really quick..."

The pair hustled down the hallway and hunted through the hotel for nearly half an hour before running into Alex, John's soon-to-be ex-wife, coming out of one of the rooms. "Dove,' started Liz, as the wide-eyed blonde woman closed the door behind her, just after before a fresh waft of blood blossomed through the air. "That smells very, very strongly of blood."

Alex didn't meet Liz's eyes and instead reached behind her to make sure the door was shut securely, and seemed to be cooking up an answer, but Ramona shook her head. "You know what? Not important right now. Whatever you got into, deal with it later. Remember how I helped you fix your husband situation earlier? Something's gone missing. And you need to find it before SHE gets back."

"What?" ventured Alex, moving away from the door. "Why do I-"

"Because she's going to kill someone if it doesn't get found in one piece. And who better to kill than her newest lackey? You're not high up on the ranks yet," pushed Liz. "And we're busy," started Ramona.

"This is an opportunity to get leverage against her and protect yourself. For now."

With Alex's reluctant agreement, Liz launched into the unhappy story of the Countess' half-aborted vampire child; the little mutant that had been locked securely behind the door of room 33. Liz expected that she'd have difficulty swallowing the story, or maybe think they were setting her up, but she nodded nervously, and began to twist her hands. "Where do I look? How do I get him?"

"His name is Bartholomew," whispered Liz, and nodded to the door Alex had closed. "He likes meat. From the smell of it, you just got your hands on some."

"Be smart," added Ramona. "No waste, right?"

"No waste," breathed Alex. "Okay. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," nodded Liz. "And remember: we don't know how he went missing, alright?"

"Shit," whispered Ramona, after the door obscured Alex and snapped shut again. "She's a brave one."

"Well, she knew she owed me," drawled Liz, as they pair headed up to the bar. "I've got to start my shift, if you want to come with…"

On an average night, the bar saw about 50 guests. On a busy night, when there was, say, a conference or a festival nearby, that number just about tripled and the hotel felt like it was bursting at the seams. People grabbed a drink in the morning, one after lunch, one before the meeting, one after dinner, and then came back with a date and stayed nearly half the night. Tonight was normal, though. For the first half hour, it was just her and Ramona.

"I'm so glad you're doing well," sighed Liz, toying with a bottle opener. "You shouldn't push your luck, though. Just call me sometime and we can go out, outside these four walls."

"You know me," shrugged Ramona. "Not much for dining out."

"Will you at least keep in touch?"

"Of course," pressed Ramona, as she slowly got off her stool and arranged her purse over her shoulder. "Let's hope I don't run into her on the way out."

Liz kissed her on the cheek as a goodbye and watched her retreating figure, high heels clicking off towards the elevator, and looked down to rearrange bottles as Ramona stepped in and the doors swallowed her up. In the privacy of the empty landing, Liz rubbed her temples and took a moment to shake it off. There were too many hits coming at her, too fast. Things always poured, not rained, at the Cortez, but she was embroiled in so many plots at once that she was having trouble keeping cool. Right now, she reminded herself, it was just work. It was just work until Elizabeth stepped in.

During the night, Iris came by to squeeze her hand and thank her for helping her sort out the baby problem. "It's not fixed yet," Iris sighed, dusting off a bottle. "I've got Alex on the case."

"Well, she god damn better have found it," hissed Iris as she leaned over the bar. "Because the countess just got in. I saw her heading upstairs with Will Drake." Liz held her stare and set the bottle down. "Well, I think it's about time I had a talk with her." Tension gripped both of them as Liz took the money out of the register to keep on her for safety and met Iris' eyes for a long moment. "If I don't come back…"

"I don't even want to think about that. Oh, don't say—"

"If I don't come back," Liz continued, "Just… make things right for me. You'll see me soon enough, in either case."

Iris watched her go; Liz readjusting her dress, holding herself high, feeling her gut twist with every step she took towards the elevator. She had a good guess of where Elizabeth would be.

She found her on the first floor, having just kissed Will goodnight. She had traveled in a matching dress and headwrap, paired with impeccable heels. It was extremely rare to see Elizabeth out of heels. The way she wore them was intimidating. It took someone with strong legs- strong feet- to wear the type she favored for hours at a time, let alone day in and day out. But she spun on those beautiful heels and headed towards Liz. "Looks like the trip went well," ventured Liz. The disarming smile on the countess' face was her first warning.

"I enjoy him," she said dreamily. "You seem anxious; I can hear your heartbeat."

"Yes, there is…" How to even begin? How did she enter this conversation with elegance? "…something I'd like to speak with you about." Liz found herself straightening her clothes again, and began to pace to find her words.

"Do you want to have the surgery?" Elizabeth ventured, gentle, nearly in a whisper. "Because I'm happy to pay, once I finalize things."

Liz turned to face her and raised her hands. "No, no, no. No. Not that. Never that, I think." She fiddled with her rings under the Countess' intimidating stare. Vampires couldn't read thoughts, but Elizabeth was very, very good with reading gestures and smelling someone's blood pressure. "You see, this is—hmm." She thought for a moment about lying and saying something else, or just turning and leaving. They were on the edge of a trembling precipice, and it was either jump or back up. She edged a little closer.

"This is difficult for me, and it may not mean something to someone like you, who does this all the time, but-" the countess came closer, stroked liz's arms with her palms, and liz found herself in tears- "I've fallen in love."

"Why would that wonderful news make you worry?" Elizabeth guided Liz to the couch, ever-so-gently, the sincerity in her touch melting some of Liz's fear. They sat, knee to knee, and Liz held her breath for a long moment, and took the leap. "It's Tristan."

The moment held chaos. Elizabeth's expression was almost unchanged, except for the merest curling of a sneer, before she said, "Interesting." And then another few choice words: "How long?"

"Not long," sighed Liz. "Couple of weeks. I know he's your current…" Liz's eyes narrowed. "…mild obsession, but I don't think you love him." That was it. She had jumped, and The Countess' reaction would meet her. She felt the steel in her touch solidify, all the kindness and girlishness gone from her smile. Her hands drew away from Liz's shoulders and Liz raised her chin in defiance, meeting her eyes again. "Not like I do. You know me. You made me. I belong to you." She took a deep breath. "But this is my one chance- "The countess closed her eyes, seeming not to listen any longer, and rose from the couch.

"I don't share," she said quietly, and took her shawl off. "Maybe when I'm done with him."

"Time passes for me," said Liz, rising to her feet as well. "You measure decades by hemlines; it doesn't mean anything to you. "You know as well as anyone that we only get one, one great one, in our lives."

Elizabeth smiled, seeming to pity for a moment, and simpered, "Let's talk to the boy." Liz felt her knees weaken, and could only breathe, "thank you," as the countess drew away.


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN:** Thank you so, so much for reading this. I just wanted to acknowledge the people who have been giving this fic love - as a small-time writer, every review blows my mind. I'm so grateful that people like my work. If you enjoy this or want to see more, PLEASE let me know. Thank you again and I hope you enjoy the final chapter. _

Liz sank back on the couch and took a deep, trembling breath as she ran her hands over her face, taking care not to smudge her eyeliner. This situation could go a few ways. She listened to the soft receding click of Elizabeth's heels.

One thing first – she fucked up that conversation. The whole plan was to be as gentle and reasonable as possible, and try to sell it to Elizabeth by taking Tristan off her hands – a moody, impulsive firecracker of a man who would almost certainly in time push her buttons. In that way, it would look like Liz was doing her a favor. That's not how it had come out, and she momentarily pressed the heels of her palms into her temples. Her speech had gone way off the mark, straight into insolence.

The look on her old friend's face was recognizable. She felt like Liz was trying to one-up her, push her out of her spot, maybe take something she had marked for her own. What she had said was petty, and underhanded, and she guessed she had tapped into something ugly between them. Dominance. But this wasn't a battle for dominance. Liz just needed more of Tristan in her life. She took a deep breath, curled up on the plush of the couch, knowing she may have damned them both. She waited for the tight, timely click of heels, and by the time she heard it and turned to see the handle turn, she was steeled for the second half of their conversation.

Liz rose to see Tristan, head bowed somewhat, close behind Elizabeth, who was still wearing that particular smile. Her stomach jumped, and she twisted her decorated hands together and wondered if she hold her lover's sweet gaze, or drop it and attend to the Countess instead. She found herself momentarily wound up in guilt, and motioned helplessly at Elizabeth, and uttered – "I told her."

They were both in danger now, most importantly, him. Maybe if she had never brought it up, they could have lasted forever. In secret. Maybe they could've run away, and he could've bit her, and they could've been two eternal lovers, turned out by the world, always with each other. A teenage daydream gone rogue.

But that's not where they were now, and the crude neon 'WHY AREN'T WE HAVING SEX RIGHT NOW?' sign behind her head flickered ominously. Tristan looked as if he was going to say something comforting until the Countess raised her hand to silence him. He gave her a shaky, tentative kiss on the cheek as she prepared drinks, and she said simply, "Sit, love. Who needs a drink?"

"I'll get them," started Liz, and the Countess waved her away. "You two sit." The two parties sat uneasily, and Liz momentarily put her hand on Tristan's arm as he settled.

"When you are what I am, you don't feel things as normal humans do," started Elizabeth, unstopping a crystal decanter. "Emotion is like a flavor in my mouth," she said, pouring three glasses. "I can taste it. Joy tastes like strawberries." She capped the decanter again and brought the glasses over to the uncomfortable pair. "Hate is like ice chips in a martini. And love is rosewater. I enjoy them all, except for one." Liz wondered momentarily, as she murmured a thank-you and took the glass, if it had been poisoned. As Elizabeth drew back, she made her point.

"Betrayal." Liz felt dry-mouthed, but unable to drink.

"That has the taste of the char on a piece of burnt meat." She looked clearly, distinctively, into Tristan's face, and then Liz's.

"Yes," she affirmed, gesturing to Liz. "The one in the dress has more balls than you." Liz's stomach curdled, first with hurt, and then with hatred. After all these years on earth, and all this time with her, Elizabeth was still somehow ignorant. Rude, ignorant, petty, transphobic… she was shaken out of her own mood by Tristan's motion to her right, drawing forward, towards the Countess.

"What do you expect?" he hissed. "That I'm just going to spend my life crying over your broken promise?" Oh here it was now, it was breaking the dam. The truth. Truth was happening here tonight, and it was going to hurt somebody. "I know I'm dumb, and I'm just a model-" Liz's heart clenched, and she reached for him before realizing that this wasn't the time, because Tristan was up in Elizabeth's face now, and he wasn't finished. "—but I know you. It's not that you get bored and you move on. Moving on is the point of the whole thing." The Countess had stopped smiling and was staring, snakelike, into Tristan's flushed face. "THAT is your orgasm," he spat. "You collect us, and create us, and get us addicted to the light of your love just so you can take it away." He lowered his voice. "You feed off the heartbreak." Liz was clenching her glass too tightly and set it down without taking her eyes off Elizabeth. She was, as always, wearing her glove. But Tristan still wasn't done. This was becoming too much. "Knowing we're out there, suffering over you." For a moment, the Countess looked simply bored, but then Tristan finished with such fury that it made her draw back: "Well, not me. I was made for more than that. For a real love."

"Please," Liz cut in, suffering the Countess' stare. "After all I've done. Let me just have this one."

The Countess took a deep breath and looked down at them both, finding her strange, tense smile again. She looked into her ex-lover's face, and she must've seen that he had started to cry. "Is this what you want as well?"

Sweet relief. Tristan immediately moved towards Liz, and put a hand at the back of her neck to bring her into his chest from where she was sitting. She wrapped her arms around him and they stayed silent like that for a moment, the Countess neither looking at them or ignoring them completely.

They lost a minute looking at each other until she spoke again. "Fine." They looked towards her, and she drew closer, and with some horror, Liz realized she was distraught. She was torn up, but she was dealing with it, and her makeup was still set, but her eyes were brimming, and her cheeks had started to blotch. "You may have him."

What came next happened so suddenly that Liz didn't react until Tristan had hit the floor. The Countess had simply, in one fluid strike, swept her clawed glove across his neck with enough force to open a gash that widened like a yawning mouth. She had done it and stepped back, giving him room to drop, and had torn down everything Liz had believed to be true about her in one go. "He's yours," the Countess murmured as the man fell to his knees, a hand at his throat to try to quell the free blood. "Bury him." Then she turned on her heel and breezed out of the room, slamming the door behind her as Liz's mind fogged, on her knees, trying to stop that powerful, warm rushing, staring at Tristan as his eyes stopped registering sight.

"Oh, god," choked Liz, holding Tristan's head up, watching his eyes roll. "Oh, god, help. Help me, help me, help me, help me, someone, please, please, help-"

Somewhere in the neither, the fates had their scissors poised to cut the fragile red thread of Tristan's life clean in two. The blade was flexed against the thread, and their otherworldly fingers stayed patiently in the scissor's holds. All they had to do was wait a few minutes, until his body drained enough, too much for his body to breathe. It was a simple matter of time before the blades could close.

In the gloom of the Countess' room, lit by a dull standing lamp in a lonely shade and the corner-store glow of neon signs, Liz held her lover, cradled his soaked neck and chest against hers. She had wrapped her scarf around his neck and just held him, terrified to move, as every time she shifted there was a new gush against her arm. She shook with sobs, but she kept them quiet, and she begged for help.

"Oh, Lord . That won't do anything," snapped a prissy voice from behind Liz's shoulder. She startled and turned to see leaning over her shoulder, pouting her thin lips at the scarf; once a sky blue, now soaked rich, almost black-red. "I've got some thread. I think he's got a shot. Give me just a moment. Get- get out of the way." More than asking, she pushed Liz out of the way, easing Tristan out of her hands and resting him back on the carpet.

"It looks like a lot of blood," she said, business-like, already threading a needle from her blouse pocket. "But it's less than you'd think. And look, take a look." She shushed Tristan as she clamped her apron over his neck and slowly propped him up against the couch. His head lolled bonelessly and his eyes fluttered as spoke again, the needle held between her teeth. "It's actually not as deep as it looks. Oh, he's passed right out. You'll want to compose yourself and get me some first aid. And grab Alex. Run." The room spun, but Liz found her feet and held her bloodied hands out, unsure of what to do for a moment, before she was able to line her thoughts up. First aid. Alex. Run. And she did, smearing blood on the inside of the door, smudging it into her dress as she picked it up, gasping, running.

She found some bandages, antiseptic spray, medical tape, and painkillers in a box in the hall closet, and she found Alex two floors down – nearly spun straight into her as she rounded a corner from the stairs.

"Jesus," breathed Alex. "I found the baby. What hap—"

"Come with me," gasped Liz, now thoroughly out of breath, doubled over. She dropped a roll of medical tape and nearly overbalanced trying to scoop it up. "The hotel needs you. Just come with me." She smeared crusting blood up Alex's arm in her effort to grab her. The two flew down the stairs, Alex trying to ask questions, Liz like a wall, still crying, shaking from head to toe. This endeavor took 6 minutes.

On the way back to the room, they slammed straight into the pair of European girls who had met their deaths a few weeks prior. Both of them screamed and fell against each other; Alex swore; Liz had a coughing fit. "What the fuck," breathed one girl, "What the fuck are you doing ripping around the hall like that?"

"Do either of you know any first aid? Any surgery? Any… care—any hospital technique?" pushed Liz. "Any experience as a nurse?"

"I am a nurse," offered one of the waifish girls, wide-eyed. "I was only on my third month in my residency program, but I'm certified-"

"Come with us," snapped Liz, and grabbed her two. This took five more minutes.

It was another five minutes until Liz burst back into the Countess' room, finding Tristan's eyes glazed and unfocused, his palor grey, his entire shirt a perfect crimson. Liz shut the door and turned to Alex and the girl. What was her name? She had forgotten it immediately after meeting her, right after she died. Now she wish she knew it.

"If either of you can do anything for him, please.. please help. Do something. Help us."

Alex was already taking her coat off and tying her hair up. The blonde European needed more convincing.

"But I don't have gloves," she emplored." Liz gave her a look that promised violence and shoved her handful of supplies towards her. "Take this. Do something. If there's anything left to do…"

"Don't be dramatic," snapped Evers. "It just LOOKED bad. She really tried it with this one, but she didn't quite make it." She scooted aside to make room for Alex. "I'm always cleaning up after her. She's usually thorough with things like this, though… that's where cockiness gets you." The European girl set to work cleaning the wound up, gently swabbing around where Evers was still holding a compress on the gash. "What happened?" murmured Alex.

"Countess tried to kill him," Liz said noncommittally, folding her arms around herself, senses slowly coming to her. She had a headache from how hard her blood was pumping. Alex looked over her shoulder, eyes looking for an explanation. Nobody got special treatment here. If you were killed, you were left alone. She had gotten the impression that nobody really cared about anyone in this hotel. "I just…. Thought he was so young, and that he didn't deserve to die like that," offered Liz. The excuse didn't sound even remotely convincing to her own ears, and Alex didn't look like she bought it. "I'm just getting sick of the bloodshed, I guess. Call me sensitive."

The European, who had just committed her first double homicide four hours prior, raised her eyebrows. "He's very pretty," she said, still cleaning blood off Tristan's throat. "Was he her boyfriend?"

"I guess," offered Liz. "I don't know what he did to piss her off so badly, but I just came up to… talk to her, and I found him in here. Hate to see a pretty face go to waste. I'm a sucker for beauty." She patted herself down, looking for a spare cigarette. Of course not – she hadn't brought her purse. "Does anyone have a cig? It's been a fucking day. You, blondie?"

"I do, actually," said the girl, putting down the swab and digging in her back pocket. "Here. Menthols okay?"

"I don't give a shit," said Liz, and snatched it from her. It took a minute of searching for her to find a lighter on the Countess' dresser. Where the fuck was she, anyway? Was she that upset over Tristan? Had she stormed off somewhere to go feed, or kill some more, or screw someone else over?" Liz unlocked the balcony door and stepped out, hearing Alex and quietly prepping each other to make the first stitches. She closed the door behind her and lit the cigarette, breathing in deeply, listening to the whoops and laughter from people below on the street.

While Liz closed her eyes and steadied herself, the fates looked at this woman out on the balcony, running her hand over her smeared makeup, exhaling smoke and holding herself in the nighttime glow of the Los Angeles nightlife. They looked at the pale, blood-soaked man crumpled against the art deco couch, attended by three women holding him, stitching him, wiping blood away. They looked around at the Countess' indulgence; her inlaid marble with neon signs, the abstract, human-tall artistic nihilism. They saw into her cabinets; the rows and rows of coats, heels, dresses. They looked into her personality; a beautiful, ice-cold blonde woman out at an exhibition, without her new husband, gazing down her nose and sculptures; not seeing art, just hoping for death and pleasure. The fates considered both the lion and the lamb. They looked again at Tristan, and they pulled their scissors away.

By the time Liz had finished one of the only prayers she had said in sincerity in her entire life and stepped back into the room, the bleeding had stopped completely. The gash that had yawned open before her eyes like a laughing mouth was stitched closed with small, precise increments of thread. His face and neck were almost wiped clean, but his shirt was drenched, and his eyes were closed, his breathing slow, as if in deep sleep. She looked at him like she didn't care, but tapped her fingers against her lips; a nervous tick when she was holding back tears. Her heart welled.

"I think he's going to be alright," breathed Alex, and stretched, finally standing. "She got really, really close. But since she turned him, he'll regenerate the skin over time." She took one last long look and helped the European tourist to her feet. "It was a close one."

"I owe you now," blurted Liz, twisting her hands against her dress. The trio looked at her oddly; three inquiring looks all in a row. "I'm just doing what I do," offered Mrs. Evers. "I've always been good with stitches."

"Like you said, it would've been a shame," said Alex. "For him to die so young."

The four of them were silent for a moment, having saved one man in a graveyard, someone on the brink of death in a field of corpses. Liz suddenly felt momentously hypocritical. "Tell him he's going to need to keep that thing clean, and be gentle with it for at least a week," said Alex as the other two women cleared out, snapping the door shut behind them. "At the same time, I'm new to this, I don't know how quickly the regeneration works…"

"Thank you," breathed Liz, and in their privacy, she gave Alex a deeply tender look, an expression in her eyes like an audible sob. "This was really, really important to me."

"Well," said Alex simply, still looking curious about Liz's intensity, "He's all yours now." Between the receding clicks of her heels, Liz crouched down before Tristan, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of her hand.

He was hers now.


End file.
